Fred Chose To Ride Down To The Coast, I Went By Coach.
This
held six inside and two by the driver.
Three of the inside
passengers sat with backs to the horses, the others facing
them. My coach was full, and stifling hot and stuffy it was
before we had done with it. Of the five others two were fat
priests, and for twenty hours my place was between them. But
in one way I had my revenge: I carried my loaded rifle
between my knees, and a pistol in my belt. The dismay, the
terror, the panic, the protestations, the entreaties and
execrations of all the five, kept us at least from ENNUI for
many a weary mile. I doubt whether the two priests ever
thumbed their breviaries so devoutly in their lives. Perhaps
that brought us salvation. We reached Vera Cruz without
adventure, and in the autumn of '51 Fred and I landed safely
at Southampton.
Two months after I got back, I read an account in the 'Times'
of 'Joe' Clissold's return trip from Mexico. The coach in
which he was travelling was stopped by robbers. Friend
Joseph was armed with a double-barrelled smooth-bore loaded
with slugs. He considered this on the whole more suitable
than a rifle. When the captain of the brigands opened the
coach door and, pistol in hand, politely proffered his
request, Mr. Joe was quite ready for him, and confided the
contents of one barrel to the captain's bosom. Seeing the
fate of their commander, and not knowing what else the dilly
might contain, the rest of the band dug spurs into their
horses and fled.
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